


Rockwell's Burgers and Shakes

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Sexual Harassment, Sleazebag Raymond, Some Humor, Sort of Biker David, Violence, Waiter Diarmuid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24745471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: Diarmuid's a waiter at a fifties-style diner who meets and starts dating David, a biker-type who everyone thinks is really scary for some strange reason.And then some sleazebag gets aggressive with him at work one day and he gets a first-hand view of how intimidating David can be. Not that it changes much, because David's still his big sweetheart.A modern AU with a bit of biker aesthetic.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 7
Kudos: 54





	Rockwell's Burgers and Shakes

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is probably even more self-indulgent than usual, being based off some Discord chat and very cute fanart, but I hope you enjoy reading it anyway.
> 
> Warning for Sleazebag Raymond sexually harassing Diarmuid at his place of employment, and warning for the ensuing violence that occurs when David confronts him about sexually harassing his boyfriend at his place of employment.

Diarmuid had told his father about his new job at their usual Saturday father-son breakfast. Ciaran had been completely bewildered by the very concept of it.

“A fifties-style diner?” he’d asked, wide-eyed, “Will they even be in business that long?”

The restaurant had, in fact, lasted way past the point of a niche eatery’s usual lifespan. “They’re pretty old. They’ve been around, like, seven or eight years now? It’s a pretty popular place to go. People like it, dad.”

Ciaran had harrumphed, flipping the pancakes with a bit more aggression than usual. No one liked the fifties, dear,” he’d declared.

“It’s just the aesthetic,” Diarmuid had replied as he poured the both of them more orange juice, “Like, atmosphere.”

But to be honest, Rockwell’s Burgers and Shakes was a mishmash of a restaurant. It was, ostensibly, a fifties style diner. The name was cribbed from Norman Rockwell, the American artist with the idealized illustrations of American life and culture. In fact, two of his prints featured prominently on the wall: After the Prom,” which showed a teenaged couple sitting happily at a diner counter, beaming as the clerk and an older man listened about their night with a fond, indulgent nostalgia, and "Soda Jerk”, with the main focus of the picture centered on the young clerk and his three female admirers, their milkshakes forgotten as they gazed at his face.

And arranged all around these prints of good old-fashioned American family values were dozens more pictures and photos of the likes of Elvis Presley, who, what with the sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll, seemed to Diarmuid to clash somewhat, as did Frank Sinatra, who he was pretty certain had mob connections. There were also a few photos of Marilyn Monroe—no self-respecting 1950s related anything neglected Marilyn Monroe—along with some vintage posters that appeared to be from anywhere and anything, be it from old ads of vacuum cleaners, toothpaste, and sodas, international movie posters, and even a few printed warnings against communism and juvenile delinquency. According to the posters, there seemed to be a correlation.

The menu, too, had some oddities. There were of course the usual variety of burgers and fries and a rather scrumptious selection of milkshakes, but there were also nacho plates, which were delicious but which didn’t seem to fit the diner atmosphere, and Mock Apple Pie, made with Ritz crackers instead of apples.

“Popular during the Great Depression, apparently. Or, well. People made it. I don’t know if people were clamoring for it, per se,” Rua, one of the cooks, had told him.

Diarmuid had frowned. “It’s a few decades off.”

He’d received a shrug in response. “Well, it’s an interesting dessert. People get a kick out of ordering it. So, you know, an executive decision to keep it on the menu, I guess.”

Sometime in the past few years the diner’s owners had also decided to incorporate roller-skating servers into the equation. And Diarmuid fancied himself a pretty decent skater, whether on the pavement or on ice, but holding trays laden with food while he drifted over to tables would take some getting used to. It puzzled him, historical accuracy-wise. Hadn’t people still worn girdles back then? That would have made it kind of hard to move around in a uniform, wouldn’t it?

It was a moot point regardless, because the server’s uniforms at Rockwell’s Burgers and Shakes provided a lot of flexibility because there was hardly anything to wear at all. Even if roller skating restaurant servers were a common sight in the 1950s, the rest of the uniform probably would’ve gotten him locked up for public indecency.

It wasn’t the worst outfit that Diarmuid had seen—it was still probably still more modest than some Halloween costumes—but the fact remained that the collared, short-sleeved shirt cut off a few inches before his belly button, and the length of the shorts wouldn’t be out of place at a club or during Spring Break. Still, the little heart-shaped apron he wore around his waist added a welcome extra layer of fabric and it was cute besides. And, even though it was more likely he’d fall on his ass then his face, the matching heart-patterned kneepads brought a feeling of security as well. A sense of confidence that, at the very least, Diarmuid would look very attractive when he inevitably crashed into the wall with a plate of appetizers.

* * *

He needn’t have worried so much. Many of the orders were carryout, which meant that Diarmuid could easily rush them to the customers in stable containers in a safely organized bag. And for those that wanted to sit down and eat, multiple trips to get everything to everyone was sometimes called for, but really the skates made it so there wasn’t that much of a delay.

And everyone was so nice. He liked his coworkers. Rua was a bit of a grump and suffered no fools, but that was pretty usual of restaurant cooks, and Cathal worked behind the counter at the till with all the fancy vintage soda pops and kept an eye on the servers to make sure they were safely skating around the diner and that no one was hassling them.

But that also didn’t happen as often as Diarmuid feared. All the servers looked out for one another and the customers who sat at the booths and the counters were usually regulars who were just as protective of the servers as the rest of the staff. There were a lot of rockabilly style types who seemed to enjoy the look and feel of the diner even if it was a bit muddled, as well as the patrons who simply enjoyed the food. The menu was decently priced and both comforting and delicious, like your favorite childhood dinner sitting ready for you on the kitchen table when you got home after running around with your friends all day. It was a warm, friendly kind of place.

So Diarmuid was a bit surprised when Cathal knocked on the door to the break room and entered, looking anxious as anything and with a hand covering his eyes.

“Everyone decent in here?” he asked.

There was only Diarmuid, needle and thread in hand, and Celia, who’d had a bit of a uniform mishap and was waiting in one of Rua’s extra long aprons while Diarmuid stitched up a tear in her shirt.

Celia looked up, grinning. “The goods are covered, Cathal, don’t worry.”

Diarmuid laughed. “We’ll be out in a few minutes. I’m almost done.”

Cathal wrung his hands together. “Okay, well, good. But there’s, um, some sort of shifty looking characters that have come in? And they’re seated now.”

“My section?” Diarmuid asked. Cathal nodded. He shrugged and pulled the thread tight and was satisfied to see the fabric pull together, nearly seamless. “This should last for a while longer, Celia. How shifty?”

“Biker types.”

“Cathal, this whole diner’s filled with biker types.”

Celia added, “Kind of what we’re going for, here. Poodle skirts and greasers and pompadours.”

“Yes, I know, but I think these guys might be actual bikers? There’s four of them. They’re all—really big. Rough.”

With a roll of his eyes Diarmuid handed Celia’s shirt back to her. “Okay, well, let Celia put her shirt back on and let me put on my skates and I’ll see just how rough they are. But I’m pretty sure I can handle them.”

Cathal peeked out from behind the door, “Just remember Rua and I are here, alright?”

As he skated to the table Diarmuid found himself tutting in disapproval at Cathal’s wariness. They were all rather large men—very well built in fact—but they weren’t, as Cathal had assumed, part of a biker _gang_. Rather, they seemed to just be regular motorcyclists in faded jeans and leather jackets. One of them was looking around at the collected paraphernalia on the walls with delight while the others skimmed through the menus with interest.

“Good afternoon, gentleman!” Diarmuid slid to a stop. “I’m Diarmuid, I’ll be your server today. Hope you weren’t waiting too long. We had a bit of a uniform trouble to deal with in the back room.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to him with, as usual, various kinds of interest. But Diarmuid noticed that one set, belonging to a dark-eyed, dark-haired, bearded older man, flitted from Diarmuid’s legs to his midriff and then straight to his face. The man went beet red, and promptly began the herculean task of staring a hole straight through his menu.

How _cute_.

His friends noticed his reaction as well. The man who’d been enthralled with the décor elbowed him the side and winked, then addressed Diarmuid. “Well, no trouble. I think some of us are disappointed we couldn’t have been there to help out, though, right, David?” It was said in a light, teasing manner. David shrank further into his seat and didn’t reply, his mouth a straight line. But his gaze did flicker once more back to Diarmuid before he reddened further and suddenly gained a studious interest in the salt and peppershakers.

Diarmuid smiled. “Ah, well. I’m pretty handy with a needle and thread. Do you boys know what you’re looking for today, or do you need some suggestions?”

One of the other men sighed. “I mean, I guess the grilled chicken sandwich?”

“You don’t sound very enthused about that choice.” In fact, he looked miserable about it.

“I’m supposed to be on a new diet, so like, healthy stuff, right?”

Diarmuid tapped his pen against his notebook, thinking. “Why not try the black bean burger? I promise, with all the regular fixings on it, you’re not even going to be able to tell it from a beef patty. And if you really don’t like it, just send it back and I’ll get you the grilled chicken sandwich you’re so obviously hankering for.”

The man looked surprised but grateful. He exchanged glances with his friends. “I mean, yeah, that sounds great. Thank you, Diarmuid.”

“Not a problem.”

They all ordered a variety of burgers—the black bean burger, one with bacon and barbecue sauce, another with caramelized onions and grilled mushrooms, and one with aged cheddar and a brioche bun—with fries and three soda pops. David cleared his throat, handed the menu to Diarmuid, and mumbled, “Could I get the—a banana pudding milkshake?”

All the shakes were great, but the banana pudding milkshake was, in Diarmuid’s opinion, the best by a long shot. Vanilla ice cream thickened with vanilla pudding, blended with fresh bananas, a long drizzle of sweetened condensed milk, and vanilla wafers, topped with whipped cream and a few banana slices and wafer crumbs.

It was absolutely delicious. “That’s my favorite,” Diarmuid said, grinning, “You’ve got great taste, David.” Then, feeling a little bold, he gave him a wink, relishing how David’s flushed face twitched with the hint of a pleased smile. “I’ll be back with your drinks. And your shake, David.”

There was a chorus of enthusiastic whoops from David’s friends as Diarmuid rolled away from the table. When he got to the counter he put in the order for the burgers, fries, and drinks, settling his elbows on the countertop.

“Big lovely tough guys, Cathal,” he said. Cathal pursed his lips and set about getting the sodas.

Behind him he could hear the table of four whispering together.

_“David, he’s into you, brother, come on.”_

_“Christ, he’s just working. Cut it out. You’ll make him uncomfortable.”_

_“No, Alex is right. Shoot your shot, my man. Diarmuid the cute waiter boy has been making eyes at you the whole time he’s been talking to us.”_

_“…You think?”_

_“We know. Just put yourself out there.”_

_“Okay. Fine. When we’re done.”_

Diarmuid bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from giggling. He’d never looked forward to a group of customers leaving as much as he did now.

But when the time came for the group to leave, nothing happened. All of David’s friends looked rather pleased and smug—like the cat that got the cream, as his father liked to say—but David looked even more nervous and barely even made a sound when Diarmuid told them to have a nice rest of the day. All he did was give a grunt and nod. For some reason the other three clapped him on the back as they left, congratulating him for a job well done.

Shoot. Maybe he’d been too shy after all. Diarmuid consoled himself with the thought that if David really did like him, then they’d all probably come back at some point. He went about clearing their table, stacking plates and throwing away napkins and gathering together the tips that had been left for him.

They’d split the check evenly and most had tipped twenty-five percent—awfully nice of them, Diarmuid thought. But when he went to grab the money where David had been sitting, he found a note written on a napkin and another twenty dollars hidden strategically underneath his empty plate. Diarmuid squinted at the man’s neat, blocky handwriting.

 _Know you’re working and it’s your job to be cheerful, but thought you seemed interested in me? Might just be me being hopeful. Forget it if so. But if not, please give me a text._ He’d left his number, large and clear in the middle of the napkin. Below that was another message obviously added as a frantic afterthought with how the words grew smaller as David had run out of space to write: _The extra tip is NOT a bribe. You were a wonderful waiter and deserve it. Thank you for treating my friends and __I so well. Am NOT_ _trying to influence your decision. It is not meant_ _that way._

Diarmuid grinned. It looked like he just had to be the one to take more the initiative. Easily done, especially for a man like David.

Rua gave him a ride home, as usual, and so had to listen to Diarmuid’s giddy chatter.

“I’m so glad Cathal sat them in my section, he’s so sweet and so handsome, and so, so shy, and oh, my God, he’s so cute—“

“I’ll take your word for it,” Rua said. He put his blinker on and turned. “Glad they weren’t, you know, assholes.”

Diarmuid wiggled in his seat. “No, they were great. I hope they come back.” He hoped, specifically, that David came back, as many times as he wanted, preferably to see Diarmuid. Maybe they could share a banana milkshake on one of Diarmuid’s lunch breaks.

Once they got to his building he waved goodbye to Rua and practically skipped up the stairs all the way to his apartment. He’d barely gotten the door shut and locked before he made his way over to his bathroom to get ready for bed. Diarmuid dropped his backpack with his skates in the doorway and leaned against the sink, typing on his phone.

_Hi David. This is Diarmuid, from the diner._

The reply came a minute or so later.

 _Yes_. Then, _How are you._

_I’m doing great. I had a pretty good day for tips. Some customers were very generous. I think I can afford to take someone out to the movies and share some candy besides. Would you like to go out with me?_

He watched as his phone text function showed that David had started typing and then stopped and then started again and then stopped again. After a few more minutes of this Diarmuid got up to change, wondering if maybe he had been too forward.

He untied the apron and took off his shirt, stained with sweat and inexplicably with a bit of ketchup blotches here and there, then shimmied out of his shorts and underwear and dropped them all into the washing machine. He took a quick shower to wash off all the day’s hard work, then quickly toweled himself off and changed into his pajamas before flouncing onto his bed sheets.

Certain that David would have answered by now, Diarmuid grabbed his phone and flipped onto his stomach.

It had taken him about half an hour, but David had finally sent him a reply.

_I would really really love to_

* * *

Two very wonderful months later Diarmuid could safely say that David was just a big sweetheart. And he did. Frequently. Along with a great deal many other flattering comments. But everyone still seemed wary of David.

Cathal in particular remained baffled by his choice. “He’s just, kind of intimidating. Menacing, even.”

There were many words Diarmuid would use to describe David but menacing wasn’t one of them. He was broad and tall, sure, but so easily flustered. And just a few days earlier after another night of sleeping over at David’s place, Diarmuid had woken up, walked out of the bedroom in one of David’s shirts, and watched him pour a packet of oatmeal into a mug. He had filled it with boiling water from the kettle, gotten dressed, and then padded back to the mug, blearily rubbing his eyes, and drank the contents.

“What was that?” Diarmuid asked, appalled.

David had given him a funny look. “Breakfast.”

But Diarmuid was already been reaching for the eggs and the frying pan. “Well, it was _something_ , mister, but it certainly _wasn’t_ breakfast.”

No, David was certainly not menacing. He was just a quiet, thoughtful man who happened to be built like a tank and owned a motorcycle and the few relationships he’d been in before had obviously been lacking in affection and compliments. Diarmuid was determined to rectify that.

“Diarmuid,” Celia said, “You got another set of tall, dark, brooding bikers at table four. I know how you like them.”

Well, there was one particular biker that Diarmuid liked, and he was tall and dark but he didn’t _brood_ —he was just pensive and easily overwhelmed in social situations. But instead of saying that he rolled over to his section to greet the men. Three of them this time, dressed in much finer leather than David’s friends had been—newer, more expensive looking—and without friendly faces.

“Good afternoon. I’m Diarmuid. I’ll be your server today. Can I get you started with anything?”

One of the men, maybe a bit older than David, with short dark hair and blue eyes, set down his menu and looked at Diarmuid. Then he did a very obvious once over. The man’s gaze stopped at his thighs for a long moment before returning to Diarmuid’s face. “Well, then, Diarmuid. Let’s start with the shakes, shall we? What’s with these special ones?”

“Oh, we have the usual milkshakes—you know, vanilla, chocolate, strawberry—but we also have house specials. All like classic desserts. There’s banana pudding—that’s vanilla pudding with bananas, sweetened condensed milk, and vanilla wafers—pecan pie—we can add chocolate chips or make it a bit boozy, if you like—and pineapple upside-down cake. Extra maraschino cherries on request,” Diarmuid concluded, smiling.

The man smiled back with thin lips stretched over his teeth. “You’re going to have to repeat that for us.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Diarmuid blushed. Sometimes he spoke too fast, or got too detailed, and customers could completely miss the basic, important information. More slowly and clearly and with less fluff, he rattled off the list of milkshakes on the menu.

“Once more, still didn’t get it.” 

“Um—“ Frowning and flustered now, Diarmuid repeated the information for the third time.

The man clapped his hands. “There we go, got it. I was too busy watching those pretty lips of yours. Completely missed every word you said. But, why don’t you give us a bit more time to think about our order.”

Diarmuid gave him a stiff nod. “It’s not a problem.”

As he skated away, heart pounding, he heard one of the other men at the table say with some irritation, “ _Raymond_ …”

Raymond laughed. “ _Think he’s freckled all over?_ ”

Ugh, gross. A table of assholes. Diarmuid shuddered.

He’d dealt with a great many irritating customers with over-inflated senses of their own charms and attractiveness, but this Raymond just took the cake. Every time Diarmuid stopped by their table the man had something to say, some new comment about how flexible Diarmuid had to be, how he was so tiny he bet he could just be picked up and pinned down, and all the talk about his freckles—Diarmuid was ready to run to the employee bathroom and see if he could scrub them off, _ugh_.

And no matter if Diarmuid smiled or frowned or just stood there impassively the other two men still always laughed like whatever Raymond said was actually funny and not disgusting and humiliating. God, he couldn’t wait until his shift was over. He just wanted to take a long, hot shower and go to bed. Cathal had noticed something was wrong but Diarmuid had shrugged him off. He could handle it himself. It wasn’t like it wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before—it was just that it was a never-ending battering of sexual remarks. He really needed a break, a small breather away from them—he really—

He was really close to tears.

Raymond appeared to relish in his distress. “You seem distracted, Diarmuid. Something on your mind?”

“N-no, I—“

“Some _one_ , then. You’re not going home to an empty bed, are you?”

“I—no. I have a boyfriend.” He took a breath. Diarmuid couldn’t help but calm, just a bit. It was always nice, to talk about David. “We’ve been together for a couple months now.” Two months, two weeks, and five days, but no need to bog down the conversation.

Raymond scoffed. “And he lets you work here?”

Diarmuid frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The man’s eyes traveled back down to Diarmuid’s legs. “Well, maybe you like the attention. But it’s hard work, isn’t it?”

“Not much more than a regular waiting job.”

“Maybe you have more time for rest and recreation, eh?” He reached out and snapped at the strap of Diarmuid’s kneepad, his fingers brushing against the back of his thigh. “Do these make it easier to get on your knees?”

“Don’t touch me.”

The look of mocking good-humor left Raymond’s face. Now he just sneered. “Telling me what to do? You think you’re here to be anything but a piece of ass?” With that, he yanked Diarmuid’s apron. First Diarmuid rolled forward, and then, flailing in an attempt to balance himself, he fell backwards _hard_ , sprawled out onto the floor.

Celia shrieked. “Oh, my God, Diarmuid! You fucking asshole! Cathal! _Rua_!” Even as she and Cathal rushed to his side, Rua was out of the kitchen wielding a grill poker and a murderous expression.

“Right, you’re all going to fuck off right now, or you’re leaving in an ambulance. And the EMTs are very familiar with this diner.”

“What? He fell! I only tried to catch him!” Raymond stared at them with exaggerated wide-eyed innocence.

Diarmuid bit down an instinctive, “Fuck you,” in response. He didn’t trust that his voice wouldn’t break when he yelled it, and that would be even more pitiful than just sitting crumpled on the floor with scraped hands and face red with shame. He willed himself not to cry. Raymond would probably get off on it. Instead, he let Celia and Cathal gently pull him up and guide him to the break room.

They sat him at the table while Celia went to get the first aid kit to attend to the scrapes on his hands. “We gotta stop meeting like this,” she joked. Diarmuid offered her a sad smile.

“I want to go home, please,” he said.

“Yeah, of course,” Celia said, dabbing at his palms with antiseptic. It stung a little. “I’m so sorry, Diarmuid. Do you want me to drive you back?”

“No, you can’t, you still have your shift—”

“Oops, sorry, I misspoke. I’m driving you back to your apartment, Diarmuid, and you’ve got no choice in the matter.”

He felt a rush of fondness and gratitude toward her. “Well, if you can put up with me a bit longer,” he said.

The break room door slammed open and in stomped Rua, the grill poker in his apron pocket. “They’ve gone and left double what they owed. An incentive to me to not call the police, I think. But we can do that. You want to press charges?”

Oh, God, no, not that. As if having more people know what Raymond had said to him. What he’d done. “It’s not that big of a deal,” Diarmuid insisted. “I’m upset, but I just want to go home.”

The cook looked like he was ready to wield the poker against Diarmuid this time. “Diarmuid, he shoved you. And Cathal told me he was saying a bunch of shit to you beforehand.”

Cathal flinched at Diarmuid’s glare. “I heard what he said before he grabbed you.”

“Glad everybody heard _and_ saw,” Diarmuid mumbled. To Rua he said, “Look, Celia’s taking me home early. I’m fine, okay?”

Rua sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Okay, fine. Now, that asshole left a tip. Just for you, he said.” He took two crisp one hundred dollar bills from the stack. “You’re already getting extra, but. Do you want this at all?”

Diarmuid bit his lip, uncertain. He needed the money but—but the thought of buying himself anything from the attention that Raymond had given him made him feel sick. Celia nudged him. “You deserve it, Diarmuid. Just take it and think on it. You could donate it all, or buy a hammer to fuck up his bike.”

He laughed and took them from Rua, but as they walked to Celia’s car his hands still stung, as if the bills themselves had scraped his palms raw.

Celia left him at his apartment with a hug and a promise to smash up Raymond and his friends’ bikes if they ever showed up again while she was working.

Diarmuid was fresh out a relaxing shower and into his fluffy bathrobe when his phone buzzed with a text.

David—oh, _no_ , he’d forgotten it they were supposed to go out in a few hours. He had the extra money, now, but—no, absolutely not. He _hated_ the idea of paying for a date with David with money that sleaze Raymond had given him. And he really wasn’t feeling very sexy tonight, besides.

With a pang of regret he texted his boyfriend back. _I’m not feeling well tonight. I’m sorry. Can we reschedule?_

He could almost hear the David’s concern in David’s voice when he read his reply. _What’s wrong?_ _Sick?_

 _I’m sorry_ , Diarmuid typed again, _I had an awful day at work. I don’t feel up to going out at all._

After a minute, David responded, _Let me keep you company?_

Diarmuid sniffled and wiped his face with his bathrobe sleeve. He wouldn’t be very fun, exciting company tonight, but he desperately wanted to snuggle in David’s arms.

_ok_

Not twenty minutes later Diarmuid thought he heard the sound of David’s bike pull into the apartment building’s parking lot. Another five and there was the familiar sound of his heavy steps and his always hesitant knock.

Pulling his bathrobe tighter around himself, Diarmuid opened the door. David stood in the doorway, helmet in one hand and a grocery bag in the other.

“Know you said you weren’t sick, but—“ He shrugged, sheepish. “Figured you’d want something to eat, maybe. So, soup? And, uh, those candies you like.”

“The strawberry ones?” Diarmuid asked. He tried to hide the hopeful note in his voice. The little strawberry-flavored hard candies with the strawberry-flavored filling and wrapped up in a wrapper to look like tiny plucked strawberries were one of his favorite. They’d always been in Ciaran’s candy dishes when Diarmuid was growing up—for the guests, he’d said, though the guests rarely ever got them because Diarmuid was always eating them. But they tasted like home and comfort and had David really gotten them? “The _strawberry_ strawberry ones?”

His boyfriend looked from him to the grocery bag with a mildly suspicious expression, as if just by asking Diarmuid had potentially changed the contents of his purchase. “Yeah?”

Diarmuid burst into tears. He hugged a startled David as best he could, burying his face into his chest as his boyfriend gently let both the helmet and the grocery bag fall to the floor and wrapped his arms around him. David was just too sweet. What had Diarmuid done to deserve him?

David rubbed his back with his big, rough hands in slow, soothing circles. “Hey, what happened today?”

“Oh, David, these men at my section were horrible! One of them kept on saying all these disgusting, gross things to me and I didn’t—I should’ve done something but I don’t know, I just didn’t, I didn’t know what to do—“

David’s gave him a tight squeeze and kissed the top of his head. “What’d he say to you?”

“That I—that I have pretty lips and asking if I was freckly all over and how he could hold me down if he wanted and he was saying that I must spend a lot of time on my knees and he grabbed me and—“

His boyfriend, who had grown silent and still while Diarmuid had babbled on, suddenly erupted into fury. “What? He _what_? He _touched_ you?”

Both the volume of his voice and anger startled Diarmuid. It was so unlike his David. “I’m sorry,” he instinctively said.

“No, no—don’t be sorry. It wasn’t your fault and—you fell?”

“I told him not to touch me and he, well.” Diarmuid met David’s gaze. “He grabbed me and I fell and scraped my hands a bit. But Celia cleaned them up for me and drove me home. And now you’re here, and I feel much better. Honest.” And he did. Even the worst days were still good when he was with David.

There was an expression that Diarmuid couldn’t quite place on David’s face. Kind of dazed, almost bewildered, but also—also fury, and something honestly kind of bestial.

“He _hurt_ you,” David said, staring at Diarmuid with that odd, faraway look.

“Not badly. Rua chased them off. And, um, I don’t know, they still paid and I still got a tip. I don’t know what to do with it, though. I didn’t really want it, but. I don’t know. Maybe I should’ve just left it in the till.”

David hugged him tight. “I’ll give it back to him,” he said, voice low, “And he’ll never bother you again.”

Diarmuid snuggled into his chest. “How will you manage that?”

“I’ll deal with him myself.”

* * *

The next day David drove him to work on his motorcycle, which was as fun as it always was. The exhilaration was short-lived, however, because David had made it very clear that he was going to wait all day while Diarmuid worked when case Raymond and his friends came back.

“ _If_ they come back,” Diarmuid had said as he settled his boyfriend into the corner booth with coffee, pancakes with blueberry syrup, and a kiss.

“ _When_ ,” David corrected. “Assholes like that, they’ll always come back to fuck with you.”

Diarmuid frowned. “Unless someone deals with them, I guess.”

“Exactly.” He took and long swig from his coffee. Diarmuid topped off his cup and gave him another quick kiss before rolling off to care of his other customers.

After a few uneventful hours Diarmuid felt relieved. He’d worried that David would just be wasting a day looking after him, but at the same time he was glad for his presence because the entire ordeal with Raymond had left him feeling a little shaky. But one reassuring look from David in the corner immediately lifted his spirits. Whatever happened at work, at least he’d always be going home to David.

But then it turned out that David was right after all. Sometime after lunch Raymond and his companions walked through the door. Cathal rolled up his sleeves and got up from behind the counter, glaring. “I thought we made it clear yesterday that you couldn’t come back here,” he said.

Raymond sneered. “I thought we’d all accepted my deepest apologies and agreed to let bygones be bygones. And I want to finish my conversation with my waiter. Ah, see, there he is now—“

Diarmuid said, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Took my money, though, didn’t you? We’ll see what else you’ll be willing to do when I offer up enough cash.”

Diarmuid opened his mouth to respond when David walked right past him and up to Raymond’s group. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, sifted through it with deliberate slowness and then found the two one hundred dollar bills, plucked them out like weeds, and held them out to Raymond.

“You forgot these last night.” David’s voice rumbled from his throat.

Raymond’s eyes flitted to Diarmuid, standing nervously behind David. Comprehension dawned on his face. “Ah, I see. You’re the boyfriend.” He moved closer. “I’m not sure what you’re so upset about. I was merely expressing my sincere thanks for a very lovely evening.”

He did not take back the tip. David placed the bills on the counter and slid them off to the side with his forefinger. The two men said nothing. They merely sized each other up. Diarmuid couldn’t help but compare them as well. He had no doubt that David was a strong man, and he was broader than Raymond, but the latter had a few inches on him and seemed—cruel, mocking. Like he was used to putting people in their place, be it by words or by fists. And David—David had tried to hide all his paperback romances when they first started dating. One night Diarmuid had caught him in bed enthralled in some sappy love story and he’d panicked and thrown it at the wall when he’d realized Diarmuid was watching him.

No, he couldn’t let David get into a fight, especially not over something so silly that Diarmuid should’ve taken care of himself. He pressed his hand to the small of David’s back, his voice gentle, soothing. “David, it’s okay. Let’s just forget about it.”

David replied, “No, it’s not okay.”

“I’m not sure what the problem is here, really,” Raymond said with a sneer, “I can’t be the only one who’s noticed your boy. Isn’t that the whole point of this place? To admire the pretty servers?” His eyes roved back over Diarmuid’s body, settling once again on his legs, his kneepads. Raymond leaned in closer, right in David’s face, and asked, “Is that your bike out there? You’re taking care of it, but it’s looking a bit rough these days, no? Keep the money—Hell, I’ll give you more to get that piece of shit tuned up properly. All I ask in return is that you let your pretty little boyfriend get on his knees and suck me off.”

David went still as a statue, the muscles under Diarmuid’s hand tensing. While Diarmuid’s face burned red with embarrassment, something dark flickered over David’s. His eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted into a snarl, and when he spoke there was something Diarmuid’d had never heard before—a barely contained, animalistic kind of rage, like a dog slamming itself against its cage.

“ _Get the fuck outside_.”

The two men with Raymond took a step back, an uneasy expression on their faces. A few of the diner’s other patrons actually looked up from their meals in alarm and made as if to immediately dash out of the restaurant before realizing that David hadn’t been speaking to them.

“David—David, wait—“ Diarmuid’s stomach twisted. His heart hammered with panic. He couldn’t let them do anything—who knew what Raymond could do, and David might get really hurt. Raymond’s friends had uncertain expressions on their faces; they were watching David as if he were a ticking time bomb. But Raymond merely smiled and gestured to the door. “Well,” he said, “After you.”

The sun was setting, the parking lot growing dark. But it was still light enough to see the way David’s fists were clenched, the veins in his strong, muscled arms, the fury etched on his face. And, opposite of him, Raymond, flanked by his two companions, a smug as ever.

“Winner takes the boy to bed?” he asked. David actually growled and began to move.

“Raymond—“ One of the men saw David stalking towards them and placed himself in front of Raymond—an effort to mediate, from how he held out his hands palms up—but David grabbed him by the collar and shoved him backwards, sending him stumbling down to the ground _._ David pointed at the other man standing shocked, cigarette in hand, by Raymond’s side, then to Raymond himself and barked out, “When I’m done with him I’m breaking your fucking **_teeth_**.”

Before either one of them got a chance to react, David lowered his head, squared his shoulders, and charged like a bull. He tackled the man, sending both of them off the ground. Raymond’s friend took the brunt of the fall, David tumbling after him. The force of impact had the man’s head bounce off the pavement, and David’s weight knocked the air out of him. Dazed, he attempted to clumsily push David off himself as he groaned in pain.

Raymond circled David like he was a snarling, raging animal. As David made to push himself up from the man lying prone on the pavement, Raymond maneuvered behind him. He grabbed a fistful of his hair with one and curled the other into a fist. He slammed it into David’s once, twice, three times. David’s face twisted into a grimace, the white of his teeth marred by blood seeping from his nose. Broken, Diarmuid thought, eyes filling with tears, it might have been broken. David forced himself up and backwards. The top of his head hit the bottom of Raymond’s chin with a noise that might have been the sound of Raymond’s jaw cracking.

The strained cry that Raymond let out indicated it was surely _something_. He let go of David’s hair and clapped both hands to his mouth. David’s fist hammered him in the stomach. There was a look of dark satisfaction in his eyes as Raymond fell to the ground, a wet, garbled sound that might have been a groan or might have been “ _please_ ,” dripping from his mouth with a dribble of blood.

“Jesus Christ, man, stop!” Raymond’s friends were holding each other up. The one that David had thrown to the ground looked at Diarmuid with pleading eyes. “Hey, I’m sorry. I really am. He was out of line—Raymond was way out of line. We’re sorry.”

David’s voice was as low and dangerous as a wolf’s growl. “ _You’re going to be_.” The two men flinched as David stalked towards them again, but this time Diarmuid put himself in the middle.

Rapidly blinking back tears, he said, “David, let’s go. That’s enough. They’re not coming back, right?” The men nodded. “And—and my boss knows what you all did. What you said to me, how you treated me. So don’t try and go around saying that my boyfriend started this.” Diarmuid wasn’t sure if anything he said would actually keep David from being arrested if the three men pushed for it. He had, after all, potentially given massive head trauma to at least one and almost certainly caused another a hefty dental bill. But there must have something firm in his voice, or maybe they mistook the red splotches on his face for righteous anger rather than the effort of holding back tears, because the man nodded.

“Okay, yeah. Don’t worry about that. We’ll go, all right? We’ll go?”

Diarmuid tugged on David’s hand, but he ignored him to instead watch the small group walk slowly back to their car. Raymond chanced a glance at them and might have spat or might have coughed but a glob of bloody saliva hit the pavement along with two cracked teeth. David looked vindicated.

“Told him,” he said, turning to walk as Diarmuid laced their fingers together and yanked him insistently toward the diner, “Told him I’d break his teeth.”

Rua and Cathal, who’d looked pleased when they came back into the restaurant, quickly grew worried when they spotted the expression on Diarmuid’s face.

“Go home,” Rua said, “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. Just take the day off tomorrow and relax. You’ll get your full day’s pay, too.”

Cathal nodded. “It’s alright, Diarmuid. Go ahead.” He paused and gestured to the tip, still on the countertop. “You ought to keep this, for all the trouble they gave you.”

“Just put it in the till,” Diarmuid mumbled, sniffling, “I don’t want it. I’m just going to change and take a look at David’s face and then we’ll leave.

The break room was empty. Diarmuid left David sitting at the table and went to the employee bathroom to get out of his uniform. But as he took off his clothes it was as if he was also peeling off the rest of his composure, and soon he was crying in the stall as he pulled his jeans back on. Which was—it was really a new kind of pathetic, he thought, wiping his face with the sleeves of his sweater.

When he came back into the break room he finally saw David’s bruised face, cheek red and scraped, his nose blessedly unbroken but his nostrils and beard and lips crusted with dried blood. Diarmuid wailed, “I’m so sorry, David!”

David’s battered face was both resigned and regretful. “You—breaking up with me?” he asked. The growl had long since left his voice; now he just sounded mournful.

“What? No! Not unless—unless you want to—“

“No!” David shook his head. “No, but I. Wasn’t sure if you still. Wanted me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

David waved his hand in front of his face. “Because of all this.”

Diarmuid frowned. “David, we’ve talked about this. You’re extremely handsome.”

“No, I—“ David let out a short laugh. “The fight. Thought I scared you. I made you cry.”

Diarmuid self-consciously wiped his face. His cheeks were still wet with tears. He offered David a wobbly, watery smile. “I mean, I’m crying because it was really scary, fights are scary, but I’m also crying because my boyfriend got hurt because I couldn’t handle dealing with some stupid guy and his friends—“ He broke off as he began sniffling again.

“Hey. This? Not your fault. What that bastard said—And maybe I shouldn’t’ve done. Uh. Exactly what I did. That’s not me, anymore. I try not to be, but.” He broke off with a groan. Diarmuid rubbed his back. Sometimes David just needed a moment to find the right words. “Don’t want to make an excuse. I don’t _like_ getting like that. _Hate_ that I scared you. _Hate_ that I made you cry. But, I’m not sorry I did what I did, because _no one_ gets to treat you like that.”

“I just thought—I don’t know. That I blew it out of proportion. That I should’ve been able to handle it myself. And then you got hurt, because of me.”

“I’m still your boyfriend, right?” he asked. Diarmuid nodded. “Then, your problems are my problems. I’ll take care of you.”

Diarmuid’s was beating so frantically he thought perhaps the sound would drown out his response. “As long as you know that I want to take care of you, too, okay? And—and right now, my problem is that my boyfriend’s face is all bloody, so.” He pressed a gentle kiss to David’s bruised cheek, heart fluttering all the while. David sighed and closed his eyes, leaning in for more, as if the only balm he needed were Diarmuid’s lips against his skin.

* * *

It was dark when they said goodbye to Rua and Cathal. Now, getting ready for the ride back to his apartment on David’s bike, Diarmuid felt exhausted. He might just fall asleep pressed against David’s back.

Before he could put his helmet on, David turned to him and asked, “Diarmuid?”

“Mm-hm?

“You’re not working tomorrow, right?”

“No, I think I’ll relax, like Rua said.”

“Then, spend the night with me? If you want.”

Diarmuid reached over and rubbed his shoulder fondly. “I’d love to. And I’ll make breakfast.”

“Okay. Okay, good.”

David bent down for another kiss, which Diarmuid happily gave. Then he took the helmet from his hands and plunked it on his head, grinning at Diarmuid’s yelp of surprise. David rapped gently on the visor with his knuckles, chuckling.

Diarmuid wondered if David could tell he was smiling back.

Most likely, he thought, as he clambered onto the back of the bike and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend’s waist. Even if he couldn’t see Diarmuid’s flushed, love struck face through the visor, it was really was a rare thing when they weren’t grinning like fools at one another.

They began the drive back to David’s apartment.


End file.
